WYCOwild trout, wild times.

The Legend of Nine-Toe and Half-Foot

For years I told myself and many of the countless other fishermen I encountered that I wasn’t allowed to go out west. I rationalized that Big Sky Country would forever change me – the sheer wilderness triggering an inherent response from my soul against the civilized world that would render me more useless than I already am without a fly rod in my hand. So I stayed away. But today I grow my horns and take that leap of faith into a world I have only been able to dream about for the past 20 years. I probably won’t be the same after this. Whatever comes, will inevitably come. All you can pray for are tight knots, fair weather, and a strong resolve. But in these moments of anxious penning that lead up to the greatest fishing adventure of my life – I can honestly say I am ready. Bring it on. Hype meets hype.

I wrote the above snippet before I embarked on the journey – leaving the word doc open on my screen for when I got home to serve as a reminder of who I was prior to heading out west for the first time.

It was cool to see how much changed in four days - how the perception of a fish, sport, and region pulled a Boobie Miles and radically shifted from “over-hyped” to “the hype is real”.

But it wasn’t easy.

Good god no.

Hype meets hype might be the best way to define this trip.

First time out west.

Four days of nothing but letting loose in the pursuit of the fish you see when you close your eyes at night.

Four storied fisheries that amount to the stuff of fairy tails for us east coast guys.

Two rugged, western states that represent the wilderness I have sought in the Virginia highlands and Western MD for so many years.

Add all that up with the perfect companion for such a journey – Brogan “Half-Foot” Jayne- and suddenly this becomes something bigger than your casual annual fishing trip.

It becomes a pilgrimage.

A mission to seek something bigger than yourself – whether it be serenity, instagrammed trophy shots, or simply standing in a river waving a silly little stick at big fish who don’t care to eat much of anything… in a place with zero cell service.

Knowing this all now, it’s funny trying to place myself on Thursday evening and even weirder trying to place myself now. The west has dug its claws into me for good.

Yet there I was at the Denver airport on Thursday evening – waiting on Brogan’s flight to arrive from Atlanta.

The rest of the night is fuzzy. But we made the 5.5hr drive from Denver to Alcova, WY in the middle of the night and arrived at The Mile in a shell-shocked state of “we really made it, man.”

There were no words to describe that sunrise.

Debating whether or not it was worth the suicide trip through the middle of the Rockies in the dead of night was a moot point at the time.

In the moment – 100% worth it. Necessary. NEEDED TO HAPPEN.

In hindsight – probably not worth it.

But as the sun rose behind us on that first morning, Brogan running on zero sleep, a handful of five hour energies, and the promise of a mystic fish – I felt a sense of belonging and adventure in a place I was literally treading in for the first time.

The river was calling us.

The Mile

The first stop on our journey was the Miracle Mile –a stretch of river on the North Platte known for GIANT browns and GIANT rainbows that follow the GIANT browns to eat their TINY eggs every November.

If you follow Catfishric on Instagram – you know all about those GIANT browns in Wyoming.

Those fish haunt my dreams.

They were all I could think about in the weeks leading up to the trip.

Similar to the Pulaski adventure last year – I spent my time filling the meat locker with every streamer pattern I could think of. Planning in advance for this fishery – I wanted nothing more than to throw a sinking line and streamer get up to a GIANT brown. I wanted to stick the fish that goes bump in the night and see my foot long articulated fly dangle from the corner of its massive kype jaw. But alas – the fish gods can be cruel sometimes.

Like when they forget to remind you that your reel for your 7wt with the sinking line is currently on your 6wt rod with a floating line…and that 6wt is in the truck of your car…in a different rod tube than the one you packed…about 10,000 miles away.

Realizing this grave mistake while rigging up in the wee hours of Friday morning – I was in a state of disbelief. HOW COULD YOU FORGET THE REEL MAN!!?! But luckily I had my 5wt reel for nymphing and Brogan had an extra reel lined up with a 6wt sinking line for streamers. Under-loading a 7wt rod with a 6wt sink line doesn’t faze me at all. Seems easier to cast to be honest – so disaster was averted and my fantasy of throwing meat to GIANT browns was back on track.

Exploring this stretch of river for a few minutes – we decided to fish a wide, deep run that was sure to hold a few big fish. We spent the better part of a couple hours fishing that stretch hard. Brogan, the nymph master he is - stuck a few, small ones. Me, the streamer dreamer I am - swung meat hard to nothing but current. Due to the lack of action – we decided to go explore somewhere else.

We packed up the truck and decided to fish below the dam at the head of The Mile. This steep, epic canyon with its murky water, mean flows, and desolate landscape screamed GIANT trout. As we made our way down the cliff to the rocky bank – there was a sense of optimism between us that something cool was going to happen.

It had to.

Almost immediately, Brogan hooked into a better fish, but as was the theme of the morning it evaded the net. After another couple hours – The Mile had thwarted us again, albeit playing host to some of the most breathtaking water and landscape I’ve ever seen.

At this point it was close to 2pm and there were only a few hours of usable daylight left. To this point we had only brought a couple fish to the net. The initial sense of awe and wonderment was beginning to fade, twisting into an ugly “WTF is going on?” mentality as each cast came back empty. Bad thoughts started to creep into my head - maybe the hype wasn’t real…. Maybe the west was a glorified version of the east coast with finicky fish but just more of them…. Maybe I was a bad trout fisherman….

All possibilities.

But as we arrived at our next spot and Brogan began talking with a few local guys – it became clear that the fairy tail monsters we were chasing simply had not been written into the story yet. They hadn’t migrated that far up the river on their annual marathon to spawn. “Give it a week and they’ll be in here thick,” the stranger said.

Sweet, bro.

After driving through the heart of the night, through mountains, on little to no sleep, all for a shot at ONE fish - Brogan and I exchanged looks that can only be described as well that sucks.

With an hour or so of daylight left – we hit the bridge pool and drifted flies to fish that didn’t exist. Brogan stuck the best fish of the day - a gorgeous 16” brown – as night fell and we packed up the car to the tune of unmet expectations and a day spent in reckless pursuit of the unknown.

Plus we were really, really tired.

That night we stayed at the Sunset Inn in town, renting a camping cabin for $40. The sleepy fisherman’s inn is equipped with a motel, cabins (think mancave meets big tool shed), and a saloon with dynamite beer and bar grub. There were also feral cats.

Walking into the bar without waders on apparently wasn’t the cool thing to do. Opening the door and peering in – we found a couple dozen weary anglers still in full wading getup getting hammered after their respective days on the water. It was if we had stumbled into a place made for us – a sanctuary for fly fishermen.

Sitting in a corner table near the TV, we relaxed over a couple pitchers of local beers and football. We ordered up some apps - mozzarella sticks, and hot wings to be precise – and went over the events of the day. It wasn’t our first ass kicking. It was a pretty standard conversation for us actually- our trips tend to start out slow due to our DIY nature.

“I can’t believe the fish weren’t there, man.”

“I know.”

“They make it look so damn easy on the internet.”

“I know.”

“Want another beer?”

“How about 12.”

We were finishing up dinner when a man with an even redder and more surly face-hair get-up than mine started chatting with us. We told him of the slim pickings out there on The Mile. “You’ve got to put in your time, man – don’t be afraid to chuck the meat.” I told him I did and that the fish weren’t in there. “Well shit, man. You should check out The Reef then.” He then offered us a free guided trip in California sometime. Hope he remembers it.

After filling us in on some “nuggets” of truth – he kept using this term over and over again as he described about 50 techniques that would "slay"– we decided to spend the next day fishing Gray’s Reef. If it sucked – we’d head back to Colorado to night fish on the Frying Pan.

We were already in Wyoming though - what's the worst that could happen?

The Reef

Setting the alarms for 5:30am, we awoke in darkness on our second day in cowboy country. After eating a couple left over gas station sandwiches from the previous day’s ass kicking - we packed up the car, strung up the sticks, fended off the unwanted advances of a particularly affectionate feral cat (we named him Scrapple), and drove up the service road that leads to the dam at Gray’s Reef.

The jolt of anticipation that comes from knowing you’ll get to take a first cast of the day very shortly and at some point, might even hook into the first fish of the day, is a feeling you can’t really describe to anyone but another fisherman without getting weird looks.

But there is always a noticeable calm before the storm.

Driving the entire 5 minutes up the dirt road to Gray’s Reef from mancamp– the desolation of the wilderness encompassing us - Wiz Khalifa blasted from the Frontier’s speakers setting the tone for the morning. We were already rigged and wadered up when we got out of the car. It was one of those rare “Instant-Fisherman” moments (just add water for fun!) where all you had to do was grab your rod and get in the water.

Things seemed way too easy.

But it was inevitable that today was the day I was going to stick my first western pig, right? Get in on the action. Prove my mettle as a trout fisherman and return home with fish swagger in full check to annihilate my “inferior” local trout populations…right?

God, in retrospect, that is an insanely stupid mentality to have. At any time. In any place. It’s hard to ever enjoy fishing when you’re busy anticipating.

In that moment and throughout the morning – I should have tried to stay zen and take pleasure in where I was and what I was doing. Focusing on reading the water and enjoying the little things. But I was hell bent on pulling a Kelly Galloup and frustrated with the robust trout population and their inability to step in what I was dropping. Plus the wind was blowing 35mph+, I was fishless, out of cigarettes, and just took a weighted streamer to the back of the dome – sometimes its hard to stay positive.

Especially when your partner in crime is crushing fish and you’re without the slightest clue.

It was humbling.

I kept searching for answers – switching flies out from egg patterns and tiny midges to meaty streamers in a frantic attempt to connect with an unseen foe. But alas – the morning bite for me was a complete failure. I was tired, cold, and losing confidence along with energy. I began to be unappreciative of the moment. I fished like a lost pilgrim. No wonder the fish gods were not generous.

Looking back on it now – this fishery is incredible. Below the dam are some awesome pools and little pockets that hold some truly gargantuan fish. I should’ve kept my game face on. But damn – that streamer to the dome was the final straw.

Meeting up with Brogan midday – it was great to hear he was dialing in on the fish. San Juan Worms and egg patterns – pretty simple stuff. Just had to readjust the rig a little bit to get the presentation right. So when we grabbed a quick bite at the general store, chugged some coffee, and thawed a bit – I could feel my batteries recharge and I decided to go balls to the wall in pursuit of a fish. Any fish.

Time was of the essence.

Positioning ourselves below the dam on opposite banks that afternoon, Brogan and I made drift after drift. I’d look over and his rod would be bent, line taught, and a hearty smile on his face. There’d be some splashing, a net job, and a wave. Meanwhile, my indicator continued its best impressive impression of a small, unsinkable bubble for the first twenty minutes or so. Then it ticked slightly and the Hindenburg indicator plummeted to the stream bed.

Still sort-of remembering what it felt like to set on a fish, I lifted the rod tip and set into the thickest rainbow I’ve ever seen. A heavy fish. Swimming at me – I lost tension in the great fish but still managed to get a good look at him (probably in the 23-25” range). If I had stayed tight – he would’ve messed me up on 6x…it would’ve been really fun chasing him downstream. But that’s fishing. That could’ve happened anywhere. I guess that’s when it hit me…

Dude…you’re just fishing. Same thing, different place. Step it up.

Over the course of that afternoon, I’d hook into three more equally impressive rainbow trout, failing to land them all – a fantastic jump, bent out size 22 midge hook, and hesitant hook set the most likely culprits for the failed capture. Meanwhile, Brogan caught a dozen or so on the opposite bank.

Then it happened. With Brogan fishing way below me, I assumed a spot on the lower end of the dam pool. I tied on a few small bugs underneath a meaty nymph and was nearing the end of my drift. As I was preparing to cast, I lifted the rod tip, but it wouldn’t oblige. Then it started wiggling…and pulling…

Not messing around after the earlier heartbreaks in the day, I swiftly landed the 15” rainbow. Incredible colors. My 22 juju midge in the corner of the jaw. Sun setting behind me. Smiling and quickly unhooking the juvenile salmonoid, I gave the fish a quick kiss on the forehead and put it back in the stream.

The monkey was officially off the back.

Although it started in a very rough fashion for me – if you simply took the geography out of the equation, it was a great day where two friends could go out and fish hard on new water. Plain and simple.

As the sunlight died off, we dumped the waders in the parking lot and started packing up the truck for the next river. Just as we were about to leave, a van pulled up next to us. Out jumped a dozen or so folks of similar age and trout affliction. All Patagonia clad trout bums – who we aptly named the “Patagonia Pajama Party”- for showing up on the cusp of darkness in matching Patagonia waders and shell jackets.

They fished within 15 feet of each other too, headlights eerily cutting through the darkness of the dam pool like some weird hatch of giant lightning bugs.

From what we could tell, they never caught a fish – but like some secret, weird guardians of the dam (maybe they were trying to blow it up? #damnation) they manned their posts presumably until well after we were gone.

With only one fish in the net to Brogan’s 30 or so after two days, I was ready to roll out. Wyoming and its wonderful forsaken wilderness had left me hanging. Under Armour Barren camo and all.

Looking back now – I am incredibly lucky to have stood on such hallowed banks.

As we left Wyoming, a fresh moon reclaimed the landscape from the darkness – helping to quell the feelings associated with a world-class fish ass kicking. The dawn of a new day and new river fueled us southward to the promise of something better. Something different. But even with the anticipation of a new day and truly blank slate - there was one thing on our minds.

Redemption.

There is a certain mile that owes us a miracle.

Mighty, Mighty Mysis

After a couple frustratingly and relatively fishless days for me “roughing it” in Wyoming – we began the second leg of our trip heading back towards Denver.

Again, we left in darkness and continued our trend of fishing by day and driving by night.

The plan was to fish the Frying Pan River in Glenwood Springs and the Blue River in Silverthorne on consecutive days before flying out– both ribboned trout waters (I kept referring to both as the “Taylor River” throughout the trip…Brogan thought that was hilarious) and known for a particularly unique “hatch” of sorts.

Like most of Colorado’s famed trout waters, both the Frying Pan and Blue Rivers are tail waters- meaning their flow is regulated via dam where deep water from the reservoir above is pumped into the river below. Because of its deepwater origins, the water remains a source of consistent temperature and food - such as nymphs, smaller fish, and in our case, the mighty, mighty Mysis Shrimp.

These miraculous little buggers (image a white Crazy Charlie in sizes 20-24) provide a year round smorgasbord for the rainbow and brown trout that situate themselves below these flows. Because of the abundance of food – the fish are renowned for reaching epic proportions. Think 30” and 10lbs+.

Pigs.

Although looked down upon by some in the fishing community – I’d question any true fisherman and angler to pass up a shot at one of these fish. Outside of their robust nature – these fish feature unique coloring due to their diet and often exhibit the colors we’ve come to know through the works of Derek DeYong that now grace many a tee-shirt and cell phone cover throughout the trout bum community.

After being sort of skunked the first two days – albeit coming close to pay dirt on the latter – I was ready to take on a new landscape. The big, stained water of Wyoming was new ground.

As a veteran of the Shenandoah Valley, Western MD, and West Virginia trout scenes – I’m familiar with clear freestones and spring creeks. This is probably why the Savage has remained a fickle beast to me over the years while the North Branch and even Mossy –that fickle beast- has been rather accommodating. I feel comfortable on those streams. Same reason I fish Beaver Creek, MD over the Gunpowder even though its about 45 minutes closer to my digs any day.

The flows on these freestones and spring creeks are usually relatively clear and the water/stream bed easy to read of potential lies and obstructions. When the water is stained – you typically already know where fish are going to be at as they’re flushed out of their main haunts underneath the bank into “open water” (three-foot channel) and you can confidently chuck the meat knowing that something cool will eventually happen.

Staying the night at an Inn in Glenwood Springs, we grabbed some gas station food and beers to relax with after a long car ride. Our stay was relatively short and unmemorable, albeit extremely pleasant, and we left the Inn the next morning at the crack of dawn after consuming the hearty continental breakfast standards of black coffee, hardboiled eggs, oatmeal, and various breadstuffs.

After making a quick detour at the local fly shop to load up on mighty, mighty shrimp flies, we drove up the service road that leads to the dam and the infamous Toilet Bowl.

Driving in, the light fighting to make its way over the peaks above – the water was black and intimidating. That said, it already seemed drastically more welcoming.

Hell – for the first time in two days, I could actually see the bottom. Even better, I could SEE fish. Big ones.

It was great.

Gearing up and heading to the dam – we were disappointed to see two gentlemen already posted up on the spot we had traveled so far to fish. Half-Foot, being one of the more intelligent creatures I will probably ever encounter on the stream (think half man, half heron, half otter), kept one eye on the two anglers while pointing me in the direction of some good water downstream.

As I explored on my own, my indicator remained lifeless (albeit I did move a big brown) and after an hour or so – Brogan bolted to the dam to claim our spot. A few minutes later, I followed suit.

For an indicator fisherman – the Toilet Bowl is a goddamn nightmare. It flows like you think it sounds…where did you think it got its name?

Essentially standing directly below the dam outflow on a rocky outcrop that serves as a fisherman’s sanctuary and current break – the water rushes from the dam around the point directly into a deep, seemingly endless pool where it then flows for about 40 yards directly into riprap before making a hearty right turn and continuing its way downstream.

There are literally more fish here than I have ever seen in my life. Brogan reminded me of this fact and the whole indicator thing after only a few weird, useless drifts on my part.

In his first five casts, Brogan hooked into four fish. He broke off two that he was excited about. That should say everything you need to know.

Over the next half hour, he would hook into fish after fish – while my bobber remained lifeless. It was like I was cursed – or being challenged – by some unseen force.

The Fish Gods.

Drastic measures were needed, so admitting my pilgrim status to the fish gods and all witnesses - I pulled my friend aside and asked him to coach me up a bit on the elementary aspects of tight line nymphing.

After ditching the bobber and adding a few more hunks of split shot, Brogan set me up in the honey hole.

“It’s all about getting the perfect drift.”

“How do I get a perfect drift?” I asked – thinking for the past two years I was making flawless drifts….and admitting my pilgrimage… I listened on every word.

“Cast ahead into the current. Try to stay directly on top of your line. Follow it with your rod tip, again staying on top of it vertically. When your flies start sinking, lower the rod tip while remembering to stay directly on top of your flies. It’ll feel just like a bass bite….”

But before Brogan could finish his tutorial – I was already bit.

It was an ironic moment considering that almost two years to the day, Brogan had taught me to fish with an indicator and nymphs on the Raven’s Fork in Cherokee, NC. What was downright deafening was that during Brogan’s first tutorial then – I also hooked a fish on the first drift, mid-lesson.

Hilarious how life works sometimes.

From there on out the afternoon was pure chaos. Brogan out-fished me 4:1 as we went on to have an explosive 100 fish day. We didn’t land the MONSTER – but Brogan brought a beautiful 22” bow to the net and I added in two, 20” browns –one more colored up than the next.

As is the tradition of this blog – we won’t bore you with superfluous details about fights….unless something really weird or cool happens. Like a yeti attack…or Miley Cyrus pulling a bald eagle and swooping down from a wrecking ball to steal your catch…

Epic.

Needless to say my first day in Colorado was a special one – great weather, beautiful fish, and good people. Can’t ask for anything more than that.

That said, I am now completely out of shrimp flies.

As we hit the road with the sun now well behind the canyon walls, all we could do was smile. We had accomplished what we came for and just what both of us needed – one epic fucking day of fishing.

With one day now left in the adventure, the smell of fish slime dating my flannel sleeves as we sat down to consume yet another order of mozzarella sticks and hot wings over cold mountain beers, I couldn’t help but feel that same sense of wonderment I felt in Cherokee a few years ago.

Similar to that day, a relatively little world got mighty big in a hurry. When I got home from that trip I researched Virginia, Maryland, and West Virginia trout water. Taking time off of my home waters on the Tidal Potomac for a crash course in local trout water.

I fished Mossy Creek, both Beaver Creeks, Passage, and Accotink that year. I learned a lot – fishing whenever I could and pushing the boundaries of a “Night Shift” to the brink.

*We originally were off until 5:00pm, those days, so I’d hit the water at first light and speed back at 3pm to beat DC rush hour traffic. When the rules changed to an 8am-9am-morning shift on top of the 5pm-midnight responsibilities, I had to cut my outings shorter and focus on mid-day opportunities…or go anyway and risk getting caught…totally worth it and luckily worked out most of the time. I had a cool boss. That said, I love my new job…we’re sort of encouraged to fish before work.

But back to the journey man.

Streams, which were easily accessible and completely nonexistent to me as a bass angler and saltwater junkie, were now my focus when not in the salt or pursuing stripers, snakeheads, fat bronzebacks, and big carp on the Potomac.

It was then, after the fourth hot wing, I knew this place - a canyon, some shrimp, and a Toilet Bowl - had changed me for good.

We paid the bill and the hit the road to Silverthorne – civilization and a return to regular life on the horizon.

But we didn’t think about that. There were trout and snow in the forecast.

Stay fly.

**Tight line nymphing is sweet. It’s already paid HUGE dividends in my game on the local trout scene where fish are pressured pretty hard. I recommend anyone who hasn’t already – to try an afternoon without the indicator and see what you can do. Just take Brogan’s advice…and read John Gierach’s essay on “Zen and the Art of Nymphing” in Trout Bum.**

The Storm

After spending the night in Silverthorne – we awoke to blue bird skies and a brisk wind cascading through the mountain valley. It didn’t take a meteorologist to know that snow was coming. It just took two east coast trout bums to underestimate it.

While habitually pushing our fishing excursions to the literal point of no return (or should I say…point of rebooking) – we planned to leave the Blue River around 1pm so that we would make our flights on time.

Similar to the Frying Pan, the Blue River is one of four tailwaters in the state of Colorado that plays host to the mighty, mighty Mysis shrimp. Like the Frying Pan, the fish on Blue get monstrous due to the constant influx of food. However, the trout on Blue are also notorious for being incredibly colored up. While finicky and educated, the deep, pink lateral stripes on these fish are often visible, allowing anglers to line up their drifts accordingly. Still, there are no guarantees.

After a day in which we had crushed fish on the Frying Pan confidence was at an all time high. As we left the parking lot to descend into town and the renowned Cutthroat Anglers fly shop, it dawned on me that I probably would not be back here for quite some time. In the back of my head, I knew this adventure would have to come to an end. They always do. It’s a shitty realization and even shittier part of life. It just goes to show that you’ve got to make the most of the current moment. You never know when or if there will be a next shot.

By the time we got to town the blue bird skies were gone. In there stead was a grey, low ceiling of clouds that expanded far past the outlying peaks of the Rockies. It being the last day, we talked some shop, picked up a few patterns and hit the water around 10am. It also being a Monday- Half-Foot had to work… so he gave me the lay down of the water and sent me on my way.

The snow started out innocent enough just as we got in the water. For the first time on the trip – I felt like I was fishing an east coast stream. Cold, crystal clear water and obvious holding water. Tiny bugs and 6x tippet. It didn’t take long to hook into a few micro trout and as I gained confidence, the fish slowly started upgrading in size. But as the fish upgraded, snow did the snow.

At the peak of blizzard I was fishing beneath a highway bridge. The run ran close to the bank and there was a good hole that dropped to about four feet. My drifts up to that point had been solid so I water hauled up into the head of the pool and watched the indicator cascade down towards me. It stopped midway through the pool and I lifted the rod tip to the tune of a long, silver flash.

The rainbow (probably having been caught before), a solid fish in the 21-23” class obediently swam to the net before coming to its senses and going bat shit crazy. It ran me down the run into my backing and across the river. It swam upstream. It jumped a few times. I got a bunch of great looks close to the net but in the end, it broke off.

When I got back in the car, I had to brush a few inches of snow off. From the look on my frozen face, Half-Foot could tell it was a decent fish.

While that fish – even in its Long Distance Release status - would’ve made an excellent cap to the trip, we ventured upstream to the Dam for one more shot. Time slowly ticking away.

Half-foot finished up a phone call while I went upstream to find a good run to end on. With the storm in all out blizzard mode, we decided we’d fish for 20 more minutes before calling it a trip.

Having not seen a fish yet, yet having heard about the luminescent qualities of these trout – my jaw almost dropped when I saw the fish sitting a few feet in front of me. It was one of those freak fish you hear about on the east coast – 28”, 10lbs+. Its flanks were a deep, dark red…yet somehow glowed against the stone bottom.

I made a cast to the head of the run, attempting to get my drift synched up. But the indicator stopped before the flies reached the massive fish and I lifted the rod tip. To my surprise a beautiful 18” wild brown came to the net. The monster fish vanished. But it didn’t matter. Hands numb, energy on zero, and holding one of the prettiest fish in my life – I knew I had come a long way in a short time.

Cherishing the release, I revived the fish a little longer than usual. Trout in hand, the snow blanketing the horizon - I allowed my hands to freeze in the icy tail water before the feisty, maroon fish kicked back to its spot in the run.

Brogan walked down a few minutes later. He got a few empty casts in before we officially called the trip.

As fate would have it – we barely got through the mountain roads to Denver. By the time we made it to the city limits, traffic was unbearable and to Mother Nature’s chagrin – we were forced to rebook our flights. Fishing had once again won out.

That night as we sat at the bar, scoffing down artisan pizza and craft beer in the warm sanctity of civilization – I couldn’t stop smiling…Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

Two states…

Four rivers…

Four days…

It’s only been a few months since I made my last cast on the Blue River in Silvethorne.

Yet, I feel like I’m still there.

That a part of me is standing in that river with the snow falling around me, rod guides freezing up with each cast, and ice forming in my whiskers – all in pursuit of that one perfect moment.

I fear I will never entirely leave this place- even as I sit on my couch in Charm City writing up this story.

Not after this.

Not after what we saw and where we went. Not after the countless hours driven in darkness and days drenched in trout-drunken sunshine.

Because when I close my eyes now, it’s worse than before.

I see myself roll casting on the seam in a place that words fail to live up to.

#FlyTunes

The greatest night of striper fishing...ever?

It all started 17 years ago on the fabled white sand of Lobsterville Beach....

I was a weird, wiry 7 year-old obsessed with fishing on his first trip to a bastion for salt-obsessed anglers - Martha's Vineyard, MA.

From what everyone had told me - mainly my mom - fish would practically be jumping up to great to me whenever I wet a line.

But being a 7 year-old, I was restricted to fishing my grandfather's dock in Vineyard Haven under parental supervision....during day light hours...when my parents would let me....so this illusion of grandeur turned out to be a cruel tease of a young, fragile mind preoccupied with big pheesh. Add into the equation that I was trying to fit into a family that could, in all good conscience, be deemed "allergic" to the sport - and you've got one sad camper.

In the following years, I've accepted their condition and with each grip-n-grin - they've accepted mine. Tomato, potato as they say, right? But I digress....

Then one day, my mom tells me that a man was coming to take me fishing for the evening. A few months earlier, my grandparents had rendered his services in a benefit auction - and with a grandson in need of a pick-me-up from his tormenting older siblings - they called in the big guns. That was when the man, the myth, the legend - Nelson Sigelman - entered my life for the first time.

Pulling up in the drive way in his SUV, rods firmly entrenched in the roof rack and a hearty, full mustache atop his smile - it was easy to see that Nelson was a good man and a fish whisperer of sorts. Maybe it was his calm, peaceful demeanor or his quiet confidence....or the bucket of live eels in the back of the truck - but I hung onto Nelson's every word that night...to this day, I still do.

When we arrived at Lobsterville Beach, birds were all over the place. Having never experienced this brand of excitement in the farm ponds of the Shenandoah Valley - I was absolutely captivated by my surroundings.

When Nelson lobbed an eel out on his first cast and handed me a doubled over rod - I was over the freakin' moon. By the end of the night, three big bluefish were deposited in my grandmother's sink and a little kid had made a friend for life.

It's amazing how time flies. From that first trip until now - Nelson and I have had adventures all over the island, him taking the time to teach me the nuances of striped bass fishing and making the effort to introduce me, an awkward non-islander, to folks who share a similar affliction. From clamming in Tashmoo to fluking off the Brickyard and yes, chasing trophy striped bass into the heart of the night all over the island - we've seen a lot in our 17 years fishing together. The lessons learned have been incalculable to my maturation and evolution into the man and angler I am today.

I've never received higher praise in my life. All I can say is thank you for instilling the right principles in a little kid.

Sadly in that same time, we may have ALL witnessed the rise and collapse of the striped bass fishery that many thought to be SO RECOVERED FROM ITS LAST COLLAPSE THAT IT COULD NEVER COLLAPSE AGAIN.

Seriously? That's just fucking dumb logic.

If action isn't taken soon - the stock may never recover. Ever.

Think about that.

Then think about who can change it.

Let's pray the politicians do something good for once. Formerly working in that industry has raised serious, serious doubts. Especially when considering the vast majority of them care more about the stocks of golf balls at the surrounding country clubs and their short game rather than the livelihood of threatened, wild fish...and most natural resources for that matter. Makes me sick.

But if this really is the end...and stripers are a thing of the past...and the world is going to hell in a hand basket....I can safely say Nelson and I went out with one hell of a bang.

It was the greatest night of striper fishing in my entire life - the fish, seemingly manifesting themselves from nowhere out of the midst of the Atlantic. A 35 and 34 inch fish both came to hand that night. A few larger fish still toy with my imagination. There were several in between 24"-27" range. More than a dozen or so brought to hand in a few hours on the water and many others missed.

But as is the tradition with this blog, the fish (albeit arguably the most important aspect) are only part of the equation. It makes no sense to me to go into detail describing blistering runs, thunderous strikes, and grip-n-grin shots. It makes all the sense in the world to me to go into detail describing the scene.

Black water for as far you could see dimpled with the predatory legacy of rising bass. Stars glistening like tiny diamonds on a gentle shoreline. The peace of mind that comes from having no phone, no to-do list, and no commitments other than casting into darkness and eventually finding sleep. The thunderous boom of a big bass on the surface cuts through the heart of darkness, breaking the silence. A reel screams. A rod bends. Excited words are uttered and a few moments later - a smile stretches from ear to ear. A special serenity reserved for those who pursue it. A special moment for those who can cherish it.

savage of the north...branch?

Chihua-Chin. Emperor of the stream.

I hate it when I take a weekend off from fishing. Especially when there are shenanigans afoot like kicking it with little dogs or drunken stream exploration. That said, you can imagine I was both a tad bummed and excited for my homies when I received this intel from Clarence Monday morning after their trip to the North Branch and Savage this past weekend. Without further adieu - some fly words from brother Clarence:

Friday: Scooted out of town around 2pm. Arrived at the Savage with about an hour of daylight left to fish. Popped down the hill just upstream of the confluence with the North Branch and across from the little industrial plant/mill/thing. Drifted some hopper-droppers and beetles along the far bank and through the pools to no avail. Connor tossed a big articulated streamer in there hoping for Mr. Johnson. Nada. Packed it in and headed to the campground to get set up and eat dinner.

Had the campsite and surrounding area to ourselves. Got lucky and found a site with a bunch of leftover firewood. It quickly got drunk out and spent a long while throwing Tommy at the big oak tree. Did some creaking that night in a little brookie stream and caught some blacknose dace and sculpins by hand, along with a few salamanders. Not a lot of insect activity under the rocks, mostly little nest-building caddis and an odd stonefly or two. Slim pickin' for those brookies. Broke my lungs on a big cigar.

Good times.

Saturday: Fished the NB lower section. We peered down the cement retaining wall on the way downstream and saw a monster palomino trout that looked a lot like this one. We came back to it later.

About two miles downstream and past the other fisherdudes that were out (not many, maybe a few cars worth) we popped into the river and started fishing. Fished super beetles with size 16-18 stonefly droppers for a bit and hooked up with a 13" or so rainbow with a melting anus. Yes. My best guess is that it had a hook or something lodged in its rectum and the wound had spread and was about half-dollar sized. Don't think it was a bird because the wound was on the bottom. Gross. Plucked out another one about an hour later just upstream in a nice run/glide in the shadows.

Around noon-2pm there were a few fishing hitting at the surface on the shaded side of the bank. We both gave those fish our best shots, but to no avail. Connor took a shot at the big palomino on the way out but it wasn't interested. Left the NB with only two fish between the both of us and headed out for provisions (more beer, fly shop pit stop, and firewood).

Next we went to the Savage to fish it before the Sunday whitewater release. Popped in just below the Do-Not-Enter section and fished a few holes. Had a half-dozen missed surface strikes on size 14-18 elk hair caddis dries. Don't know what the problem was--either user error or uncoordinated fish. Had to pack it up a little early because there was an intimidating storm rolling our way.

Went back to camp and waited out the rain. Decided it would be a good idea to go catch a brook trout, so I went and caught a brook trout. Pretty decent sized fish considering the puddle she lived in. Hammered a little caddis on cast#1. Tired herself out in about 15 seconds and didn't want to swim upright again, so I had to spend 5 minutes reviving her. Felt bad and checked up on her continuously throughout the night and she seemed OK.

Got the tents up, the fire roaring, and dined on pork chops and lamb prepared by Camp Chef Connor. Threw some more Tommy (hawk) until it got lost in the weeds (found it in a very conspicuous spot next to the tree in the AM).

Sunday: Tried to fish the Savage during the release, but at 800-1000cfs we were fishing some stained, high water and were having trouble getting flies down, and casting was tough from the bank and the river was too high to safely wade. Decided to get back to the NB and fished the upper section below the dam. There was a beautiful run with some deep holes upstream about a mile from the parking lot and we had it all to ourselves (except for a big osprey).

We each casted to a palomino and his half-dozen trout buddies but none were interested in anything more than a quick look. Moved upstream and caught a 14" smallie on a super beetle. Moved up a little more and Connor caught fire and ripped out two 13-14" bows from a pool on a dead-drift nymph rig. He gave me a chance at the hole and moved back downstream only to pull out a 20" rainbow. It acted like a log coming to him, but once it saw me with the net it got nimbly and put up a solid fight. Took right back off without hesitation and will make another angler happy again soon.

Swapped places again and I caught a 14-15" rainbow on a wooly bugger. Connor caught another average sized rainbow with a big chunk out of him (thanks Osprey). Fished our way back to the car and called it a day around 3:30.

Lessons learned: Bringing my little dog fishing isn't as big of a pain in the ass as I thought it'd be. She fits perfectly into a backpack and is very complacent sitting there all day. Gets upset when folks refer to her as a cat, though I understand the confusion.

Thanks to Connor, I now know that nymph rigs can be easily setup with a couple feet of leader butt section (or probably a 25-20lb mono knotted taper) with a loop-to-loop connected to 4 feet or so of 4x fluoro tippet. Easily tied, turns over well enough, and cuts through water. Great idea and would have saved me from having to retie after inevitable nymph rig tangles."

Standing in a 9.5ft fiberglass dinghy, roughly 150lbs over capacity without a motor, a relentless Eastern wind pushed the nefarious characters away from the scene of the crime and back towards civilization. As the darkness enclosed around them in the mangrove wilderness, 9Toe Smothers and Half-Foot Jayne stood with blank stares fixed on the horizon. An eerie silence descended upon the lagoon. Looking out onto the black water, their characteristic rouge cheeks drained to a more ashen shade of what-the-fuck-just-happened grey; there was no need for words. After intensely flipping flies for 40 of their first 48 hours in paradise and beating up every goddamn inch of mangrove shoreline to no avail, there was no place on earth they’d rather be than this moment. But damn if it weren’t bittersweet. 9toe had just trout set on the fish they came for— the crown jewel of the backcountry— Magalops Atlanticus. And a good one, too. It was a lot like the Game of Thrones episodes where the Red Viper fights the Mountain or the infamous Red Wedding – right when you thought long-awaited victory, justice, and instagram glory were to be restored to the Universe, your favorite character ends up dead in the worst fucking way and the whole world goes to shit….the lines goes slack…the excitement ends….the water which for a fleeting moment was once so full of life turns to black In this instance, 9toe and Half-Foot didn’t die horrific, graphic deaths…but try telling that to 9-Toe…..The Approach Remick “9-Toe” Smothers and Brogan “Half-Foot” Jayne landed in Sarasota on May 9th at 3pm. Arriving at a familiar place, they intended to fish hard until Monday before heading their separate ways. There was one thing on their minds—redemption. See—the previous October, the boys had planned to hit it big. Taking time off from some epic trout fishing in their home waters to chase the leviathans that live in the salt. They arrived in the SRQ (Sarasota) on a Friday, fished through Sunday, and found themselves on the wrong end of a post-frontal, new moon fueled, high-water shit show that rendered every fish within their vicinity absolutely lock-jawed. Over the course of 80 odd hours in Paradise, they came away with only a small tarpon to show for their efforts and a few big reds that threw the hook. Half-Foot stuck the tarpon on the last day too. It was just one of those trips. Ain’t fishing great? But this time was going to be different. They were fully prepared. 9-Toe tied up fewer flies than last time (albeit with more variety and quality) to figure out what would ignite the bite. Depending on what worked, he would tie from there. He did better research, this time not picking a random weekend and hoping for ideal conditions – but guaranteeing them. The first full moon in May can be that good. He read up on fishing reports and tide charts. If only he had shown this sort of dedication in school… They vowed to be more precise. Make softer casts. Strip faster. And never, ever trout set. After a dozen or so IPAs and some Sniki Tiki chow that night – the weary travelers hit the hay at 2am. They’d be on the water before the sun. The Cast The next morning, 9toe and Half-Foot woke to darkness, threw on their fishing shirts and board shorts and hopped in the Ford Echo to make their daily stop at the 7-11 on Midnight Pass Rd. The night before, fueled on ambition…or Sweetwater…they got all their ducks in a row – launching the skiff, stringing up the sticks, and picking up a Styrofoam cooler to act as a drying pad/life line to hydration and caloric intake. They named it ‘Yeti’. It cost $2 and kept their flies dry and their drinks cold and honorable. Yeti lived a happy life for four days before former FlyTimesDC contributor Tony Pikos lost his balance while playing with his hang down and used the dilapidated Styrofoam chalice to break his fall….’Yeti’ was destroyed….and then we bought ‘Yet 2’….. Loading up on PURPLE G2, water, ice, sandwiches, cerveza, and breakfast stuffs (new stuffed hash browns are wonderful) the two anglers were ready to get weird on some fish before the sun poked its head over the horizon. They'd repeat this step daily over the duration of the trip. The Take After two days of ABSOLUTELY CRUSHING GIANT REDS, the boys were still in hot pursuit of a date with Megalops Atlanticus. Looking down at his sunburnt and fire ant bite ridden feet, Half-Foot, who in the exact same spot about an hour earlier had jumped a nice fish, tried to offer up some encouragement. “That take was absurd.” “I know, man. Planet earth shit.” 9toe paused, sighed, got a cigarette out of his pocket, and lit up. “What happened, dude?” Looking up at the sky for answers that surely wouldn’t come, 9-Toe sighed heavily. He had two choices. Blame the fish or take blame himself. It was an easy choice, “I just fucking trout set.”

And that was the end of the conversation.

Redemption

As the ideal moon cycle began to fade, the red bite slowed down. The tarpon, which we had seen somewhat consistently each morning and evening, seemed extinct. Worst of all, Half-Foot had to roll out leaving 9toe to maneuver the vessel while fighting and landing a potential fish solo. Not an ideal situation but not an impossible one. He had done it before.

After almost a week of perfect weather, a front pushed through. The wind would spike to 25mph from the SW after 9am for two days - leaving a miniscule 3hr window to get bit by a fish that by all means did not want to play.

Big, white half-n-halfs and a relatively new baitfish pattern 9toe tied up at the Best Western had produced a few takes. In the span of fishing 5 days with Half-Foot, the boys had managed to cast to 10 fish, jump 3 and ultimately fail to bring any to hand. All fish were spotted in the same 100 yard stretch of shoreline. They had somehow figured out a pattern (by eliminating every OTHER square inch of lagoon...) Time was running out. Half-Foot's exit signaling the final 3 days of fishing for 9toe.

As 9toe launched the skiff that morning - a cool breeze gently rippling the water - he tied on a star**** and began to stealthily place casts on the mangrove ledges. About 10 minutes into his adventure, he came to the tree where just a few days prior - he trout set on the fish of a lifetime, pulling the hook out of the fish's mouth. Making a short, 25ft cast under an overhanging branch, 9toe let the fly descend into the black water for a couple seconds before stripping it back as quickly as he could.

The fish were on it after the first strip and three juvenile poons (10-20lb class) shot out of the groves to inhale the fly.

There would be no trout-setting this time. No pilgrim-anticts of any kind. The Fish grabbed the fly, 9toe strip set hard, and the Megalops Atlanticus skied into the early morning light. After a 10 minute tug-of-war in which the fish attempted to pull 9toe and his motor-less vessel into the mangroves - 9toe managed to get the fish to deeper water and eventually brought it to the surface. Locking the fish grip on its prehistoric mouth - he pulled the juvenile dinosaur in the boat and started fawning over it like it was a hot blonde holding a puppy.

But hey, that's what 4,000 casts and averaging 12hrs a day on the water will do to you.

After a short photo shoot, 9toe gave the beast a quick smooch and revived it boat side. With a strong kick his prize headed back to its mangrove layer.

With the tarpon out of the way - 9toe called Half-Foot at 7am to let him know what went down. Life was good.

"This ain't no place for the weary kind"

I arrived at Syracuse Hancock International Airport with a few minutes to spare before it was officially Friday morning. Fueled on Brooklyn Lager and the desire to touch steel for the first time, I made my way to baggage claim to pick up my massive checked gear bag (FYI they charge your $90 if your bag is over 50lbs….). But who cares? After weeks of anticipation, we’d finally made it to the land of white walkers and revered lake run salmonoids. On tap was Pulaski (Poohlazkey aka Poohtown aka chrome factory) an incredibly fishy town in upstate NY. Each fall, this entire region gets its rocks off with an epic Salmon run beginning around Labor Day and ending just as the trick or treaters ready themselves for their annual sugar siege. Then the temps drop and this magical little offshoot of Lake Ontario transitions into a top-notch winter steelhead fishery. For those bent on chasing and eventually touching steel, there might not be a better place on the East Coast. It’s a pretty fly place by our standards. I cannot stress this enough though—Pulaski is a community entirely consumed and economically fueled by the salmonoids that annually invade its tributaries. It is a staple in the identity of the people here. Only a few establishments in the township choose to abstain from its inherent angling tradition. Hell, you’d be hard pressed to find a local business that doesn’t have some sort of fish mount or tackle on the wall. Even our stay at what we thought would be a generic Super 8 surprised us with wall size fish pictures above each bed. Yet if you do a smidge of research on the Salmon River, you find that there’s very good reason for this. The salmon and steelhead, similar to being foundational in their role as fuel for an ecosystem, stimulate and often sustain the entire community and region’s economy as well. Talk about a symbiotic relationship. But the locals here get it. Of all the great lake tributaries, none are more famous than the mighty Salmon. Flush with black water and slick bottom, it flows through the heart of Poohtown, ushering in thousands upon thousands of fresh King, Coho, and Atlantic Salmon from Lake Ontario on their annual plight to spawn and die each fall. In pursuit of this migrating smorgasbord of fresh salmon eggs and eventually, their rotting flesh, are the big brown trout and steelhead that ultimately make this fishery so darned special. It is also the reason why the Salmon is one of the premier (and most pressured) steelhead fisheries on the East Coast. Sure the salmon are great. They bring thousands of people to the banks of the river each year and flush the town with tourism dollars. But when the thermometer starts to drop and the salmon run starts tailing off, anglers from all over these great United States and for that matter - the world - come to Poohtown in pursuit of its chrome. It is a rite of passage for fly fishermen… to freeze their collective asses off in its righteously icy waters…. all for a fish with never ending runs…. inspired by a personal affliction towards the world of man…that you can’t take personally….but somehow always take personally…. In the world of fly fishing –you aren't cool if you haven't done it. You know? Made that next-level trip to the great white North to fish through bitter cold and never ending snowfall.Ever pulled up in Poohlazkey to touch chrome, bro? That epic Great Lake steely gnar-gnar, son? Stickin’ pigs on the SWING for shibby chomed up props? Alright, I’m done sounding like a jackass now (above all else, stay fly), but you get that righteous vibe we’re laying down…. People make fools of themselves for these fish. We are no different (see video below). So with this in mind, I succumbed to the instagrammed peer pressure and stupifying amount of fish porn on the interwebs and put the wheels in motion for a trip to this East Coast steelhead mecca. Not surprisingly, all it took was a text to my equally intense angling buddy, former college teammate, and best friend, Brogan Jayne. Three weeks later we found ourselves in the frigid environs of Syracuse Hancock International Airport on a collision course with the salmonoid of our dreams. The snow was already falling when Brogan pulled up curbside in our hot ride for the weekend -- an ice blue Jeep Patriot. Throwing my gear in the back and hopping up front - we spent the next 35 minutes en route to Pulaski catching up on life and listening to some fly tunes he had burned in advance. Roaming through the frosty darkness, enjoying the heated comfort of the Jeep, with nothing but possibilities and the ability to fish non-stop for the next three days, it was hard to want anything more (maybe a beer?). Life was good. It was the calm before the storm that is a winter steelhead trip without guide, game plan, or any prior experience. Discussing strategy and expressing our sheer excitement for the opportunity to fish for these most noble creatures, it became apparent we didn’t really have a clue where to go or what to do outside of getting on the water and getting our hands dirty. Outside of nymphing with egg patterns or swinging streamers on 8wts with fairly heavy leader, we hadn’t really gotten too far in the thought process. Now, before you start second guessing us here - we didn’t come up here unprepared. We studied maps for months. Read a nauseating amount of information about Oswego County. Its rig regulations…the perils of Route 13….which tackle shops were cool…which ones were facist and evil…..but it’s different when you finally get there. Arriving in Poohtown at 11:40, we stopped at the Byrne Dairy gas station in Pulaski to pick up some supplies . Due to some weird law in Oswego County that requires gas stations to stop selling beer at 11:45, we were in a race against time to get the essentials we would need for the evening. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. In a mad dash we assembled a wicked array of Mangbearpig (Dogfish Head 60), Bells Two Hearted Ale, Lagunitas IPA, and Dales Pale Ale. We barely beat the beer buzzer before having to go back and purchase the other, non-beer necessities (purple G2, bagel bites, and sour gummy worms). Beer in hand, the freezing air felt good. We were exactly where we needed to be. Hopping in the jeep, we made the short ride over to the Super 8 in downtown Pulaski to set up basecamp and wind down. Steelhead haunted our dreams.Day 1: Game on, dudes. After enjoying a quick Burger King breakfast, we hit the water around 7:30am. We started our efforts out at Ellis Cove—a bend in the river just upstream from the famous Lower Fly Zone in Altmar. Strapping on our waders and layering up for the day, a car pulled up next to us. Two dudes of similar age and scruffy fly attire emerged from the vehicle and unloaded their waders and gear in similar fashion. Exchanging head nods and friendly howdies, one of them overhead Brogan mention his native soil –Georgia. Intrigued by the southerners in their midst, we struck up some friendly conversation before getting to brass tax about the fishery and how to approach the water. After a quick look over of our rigs, it was fairly obvious they could smell our rookie-strange from a mile away. Low flows they said. Use 6lb test. Fish beads, drag free on the bottom. Thanks bro! See ya on the water! Well shit. There goes my month and a half on the vice tying up every goddamn egg variation you could think of. My brand new steelhead leaders (13lb and 12lb test) for $6 a pop? Useless (unless I recklessly tied them down). But hey— you gotta respect the sharing of local info and the challenge of adapting your game plan on the fly. So despite only knowing these gentlemen for all of five minutes, we changed rigs and descended the icy parking lot steps to the river bank. Talk about blind faith. The first few casts were some of the more focused and intense of my life. But after messing around for an hour or two on our own with little to show, the doubt bug started to creep into the back of my head. There are few things more confidence draining than stumbling your way through new water. Even if you’ve read every book or article on the interwebs, NOTHING makes up for experience. So was I a tad relieved when we ran into our parking lot friends again downstream? Your damn right I was. Offering up dip and flies in exchange for more friendly advice, we talked shop for a few minutes comparing notes and commenting on how damn good the water looked. While we were rookies in the parking lot, Dan, the more experienced of the two anglers, could tell we knew how to fish and opened up a little bit more after the exchange of tobacco and feathers. These fish are pressured. They’ve seen every fly in the world at this point. The more natural, deep, and drag free you can get – the better off you’ll be. Hence the beads…easier on the fish too. He told us to meet them down at the Trestle Pool later-an epic pool near a set of abandoned railroad tracks. I had no idea what he was talking about. But I nodded along like I did. "We'll let you in" he said with a smile. As if he knew what would happen next… Making our way downstream to the bend where the Trestle Pool gains its glorious depth and flow, we saw Dan and his buddy. We were in the right place. Thank god. They waved us over and ushered Brogan and I to the head of the pool. A rare act of fishing kindness completely void of D-baggery—rarely have I seen anglers go this far out of their way to put some strangers on fish. We will be sure to pass it forward. Before making my first cast, I readjusted my rig to get down deeper, added a few more pieces of split shot, tied on this ice blue, hinged stone fly (ice blue was a cool color this trip), and stripped out my line. After the miles traveled and countless hours at the vice, I took a deep breath and prayed to the fish gods for something cool to happen. But instant gratification would not be found here. Dan’s indicator shot down and a chrome torpedo erupted from the water. In sheer excitement, he gave chase to the beast downstream and off he ran in pursuit. A moment or two later we saw him walking back upriver, his body language telling us all we needed to know. He’d lost the fish. Still, knowing you are on fish does wonders for the confidence. Needless to say, I could feel myself regain focus after Dan’s lost pig. My drifts improved. My casts stopped their collective suck (not sure they ever did, but you know the weight of a fishless day and how it can get in your head). After a few particularly drag free drifts, I had that sick feeling in my gullet that I was going to get bit and to my chagrin, the indicator shot down for the first time. Heart thumping, I set hard on the fish. The river bottom rose with my rod tip and I felt my first, massive steely headshake. Unfortunately, that was about as far it went. It was over before it could even start. My rig had failed me. Dan and the gang were heartbroken. My first taste of steel was nothing but a quick break off....but damn, what a break off it was! We were so damn close. After an hour or so of little action after the breakoff, we decided to head back up river to a nice bend we’d noted earlier. With only one bite between the two of us and the temperature starting to drop with the fading daylight, we knew we’d only have another hour and change on the water before it would be too dark to see our indicators. It was time to give it one last hurrah. Arriving at the bend near the parking lot, Brogan and I split up on the river bank— him crossing the river way downstream to take the North bank and I residing on the South bank. Taking a minute to observe the whole scene (Brogan on one bank by himself and 10 or so spin fisherman on my bank just downstream), I saw him lift the rod tip and set hard on a bruiser steelhead (est. 15lbs). The fish exploded from the water, its massive back and dorsal fin protruding from the fast current as it tantalizingly paced itself just out of the victorious reach of Brogan’s net. It was one of those situations from a horror movie. You know the one where one friend watches something bad about to happen to the other friend from a place of relative safety and can do nothing to help or stop it? Yeah…it was just like that. With no way to tell the depth at the river bend it would have been treacherous/irresponsible/dangerous/badass to wade across (especially considering the plethora of would-be pissed off spin-fishermen who take their steelhead outings very ass-kicking-seriously), I did my best to document the incredibly frustrating moment from a far. But blurry camera pics of a bent rod were all I could conjure up. As the fight ensued, Brogan got to work. Unable to move the fish in the current and without a net man (I fail), he did the only thing he or any other angler could do in the situation—try to kick the fish’s ass. Putting his 8wt to work, he applied as much pressure as humanly possible with the rod to turn the fish. But the current and sheer mass of this beast were too much to overcome. Physics –that cruel bastard—was working against us as the rod imparted as much force as possible without breaking. From my vantage point it was bent into a full “C”. For a minute, the fish even cooperated, slightly relinquishing some ground and inching its way towards the net and calm water. But then the mighty beast actually saw the net…and let’s just say steelhead might hate nets even more than they do people…. In an instant, the fish bulldogged itself back into the main current seam and….. I could go into more detail here, but this isn’t the story of an epic tug of war where we win at the end. It’s sure as hell not the recanting of Brad Pitt in ARiver Runs Through It and his epic slide down the Deschuettes in pursuit of a monster fish. No. No. No. Steelhead glory would not be achieved on the first day. This game is difficult. It rewards the devout faithful. Beginner’s luck doesn’t exist. This ain’t no place for the weary kind. After losing ground to the fish and allowing it to find its way back to the fast flowing current, the light line eventually gave out with an audible snap. The monster fish returned to its home on the river bottom and we were left with the fleeting memory of its monstrous bulk. In the ensuing moments, the surrounding woods were filled with some choice profanity. But with only a few minutes left of usable light, this was no time to pout. Brogan quickly re-rigged and got his fly back into the seam. That’s fishing…..so when the indicator shot down again a few minutes later, we thought we had been given that rare second chance. Still separated on the other bank, we repeated the infuriatingly helpless process on a slightly smaller steelhead, which again decided to toy with our emotions and relative sanity in similar fashion. Within a few minutes the apple of our eye found himself freed from the annoying sensation in his mouth and back in the lineup with the first monster on the river bottom. It was a lesson learned the hard way – don’t split up when steelheading. Two bites in the span of 5 minutes rarely happens…especially on your first day. We had blown our opportunity to catch lightning in a bottle. Always have a net man. Tired but sure as hell not defeated, we clocked out on our first day of steelheading right as the last bit of light checked out for the day and rendered our indicators useless. Hitting the road en route to Pulaski in complete darkness (it was 4:30pm) the friendly confines of the Super 8 and a cold beer/hot shower combo beckoned us in from the cold. But even as the Jeep’s heater melted away the day’s frustrations and restored feeling in our extremities, it was hard to not think about those unforgiving black waters of the Salmon. For not touching a single fish all day, I don’t think we’ve ever had more fun. We were chomping at the bit to get back out there. As fairly serious fly fishermen, Brogan and I are up for the challenges that this sport can present. Nasty weather, tough fish, and unforgiving conditions are something we sort of look forward to. You may be thinking – why is this you sick, twisted bastards? Well, I’m glad you thunk’d it. Simply put, we want to fish literally every second of every day. It is a damn addiction, passion, and outlook on life that is only understood completely by those who share the affliction. Whether it’s a perfect day or a shitty one, it doesn’t matter. There are fish to be caught and new challenges to overcome. The more conditions you’ve successfully bested, the more useful you are on the water. The more lessons you’ve learned. For us, Pulaski was a strange, new world with monstrous fish and limitless potential. Day 2: This ain’t no place for weary kind. Jazzed up over Brogan’s two hookups and my lost fish, we started discussing what we wanted to do for the next day. Ending your first outing on such a positive note can do wonders for the outlook of a trip. We were no longer rookies. We had been successfully bent over and abused by these fish, but hey—you got to start somewhere. We agreed it’d be essential to hit our lucky seam first thing in the morning. If nothing happened, we could always roll out. As most fishermen know, first light is far too precious a miracle to waste by sleeping in. Back in the hotel that night, we googled some access points along the river that looked promising and read through more fishing reports then what should be considered humanly possible. Then that hunger thing kicked in. Being in upstate NY near Buffalo, the concept of Buffalo wings near Buffalo sounded incredible. A quick google search for a spot with some good bar food gave us all the information we needed for a night out in downtown Pulaski. Three letters: LDs. Look it up. Enjoy. The hot wings at LD’s Sports Bar and Bear Naked Pale Ales (Trout Tap aka Trout Beer) were well earned….and incredible….burn-the-roof-of-your-mouth-and-not-care-good…. Making things even better was the addition of a new friend, Justin, who after hearing of our long travels and subsequent struggle on the day offered to take us out on his drift boat on Sunday if the fish continued to not cooperate. We exchanged numbers and agreed to call if “worse came to worse” before we retired back to the Super 8. Finally sated off of grogs of trout ale and spicy, char-grilled fowl we were confident we’d crush the fish the next day. The next morning we awoke in the complete darkness to the snow falling hard and the temperatures firmly stuck in the low-20s. Most fishermen would wait for mid-morning to find their way to the water. But naturally, we hit the water at first light—determined to get on the same current seam as the previous dusk’s fireworks. We wanted to make sure we were the first to the parking lot… after a quick stop at McDonalds for McMuffins and coffee, of course. Surprisingly the parking lot was empty. We thought we had won the game. In our minds, there were only so many minutes we’d be on these hallowed banks and we fully intended to take advantage of every single one. If we snuck a few minutes while the majority of anglers slept, that would be more than welcome. But then we saw it— a stupid dark shape that ultimately rendered our rush to wader up and get the sticks ready in the freezing darkness for naught. Looming off the bank was the silhouette of a drift boat…and he was anchored up right on the stretch we wanted to fish. Like a surfer in a lineup, we waited him out…and then another half-dozen drift boats ….and then another half dozen drift boats….and watched as they proceeded to pound the ever loving sheet out of our desired seam without so much as a bite before vacating the vicinity….then we hopped in. By that time we got to our desired bank, it was probably too late. The fish were on to the game. Cynical and lock jawed. But we gave it our best effort anyway and after the better part of an hour, we were curious to see what else might be out there. Ellis Cove had been good to us but it was time to move on. It was time to check out the fabled flows of the Lower Fly Zone. Running through the small town of Altmar, the LFZ on the Salmon River is a place all fly fishermen must experience at least once in their lives. If I had to describe the scene, I would say it’s Boca Grande during tarpon season meets A River Runs Through It. Pristine flows, countless fly fishermen, and dark, bottomless runs define this narrow chute of prime steelhead water. It might just be the fishiest and pressured stretch of water in the region as far as fly fishermen per square footage is concerned. But from our vantage point looking down below onto the sea of fishermen drifting flies through the oncoming snow fall – we could make out the distinct shape of bent rods and yelps of steelhead driven ecstasy. Would this be where the steelhead monkey finally fell off our backs? In short, no. The LFZ wasn’t our jam. Although we knew there were fish here, it was too cramped for our liking and we couldn’t carve out a good niche in the lineup. If we had more time on the trip we probably would’ve messed around here a little more but being we were in a crunch for time we decided to split. After an hour, we climbed the hill back to the main road and packed up the car for snowier pastures. Loading up the car, we wanted to find some water where the fish wouldn’t be as pressured and the steel:person ratio much higher. Looking at the map, we found a stretch of water near a set of power lines that looked promising. It required a hike to get to and from the road, didn’t call attention to itself. It was our kind of place. After letting our sticks thaw for a minute in the car, we took a deep breath, ate some trout bum lunch, and allowed for Wale to properly inspire us. Then we started the mile or so walk in the direction of the river under snowy skies—ready to face the unknown. There are few images more desolately beautiful than a barren field covered in fresh snowfall …especially underneath an ominous overcast sky. Again, the scene and water were epic. Not a ton of people and the runs were pretty easy to read. But after another couple hours of supreme effort, we found ourselves with limited daylight and on our last legs energy wise. Like a siren’s song, the prospect of a hot shower, cold beer, and fresh hot wings called to us, but with nothing to show for our efforts it was hard to pull ourselves off the water. We fished into darkness before the cold and mounting frustration ushered us to warmer environs.

There are some days where you get bit and don’t capitalize. There are others where your opportunities are limited due to weather or a front moving through. Others, there is a mystical force standing between you and the fish of your dreams. Unfortunately for us, it seemed like the latter option.Day 3: Making Moves, Spartan Karma, & Location X With less than 24 hours left to touch steel, our nightly stop at LDs for wings and trout beer was more humbling and convalescent than glorious and victorious. The fish monkey blatantly weighed on our shoulders as we attempted to refuel and thaw out after another long, fruitless day on the icy banks of the Salmon. With each sip of beer and bite of spicy chicken, we weighed our options….which after months of prepping and planning came down to three realistic paths….

We could wake up at butt crack dawn and grab a spot in the LFZ in the icy cold and swing until we connected….leaving us at the mercy of the confidence draining water we’d already beaten to death….

We could procure a day pass for the DSR and feel our way around a new body of water….a tactic that would leave us fighting against the clock and questioning each unfruitful cast…..

We could call our buddy with the drift boat from the night before and pray he still remembered us after the rounds of trout beer and bourbon….

It really wasn’t a tough call. For the second time of the trip, we took a shot in the dark and trusted a complete stranger. We gave Justin a call. The first attempt came back with no answer. But just as things started to look dire mid-way through the Ohio State-Michigan State game (for both the BCS National Championship Game and our pursuit of steelhead), Brogan’s phone rang. From the other side of the room I could hear Justin’s roughneck voice on the other end of the phone as he talked logistics with Brogan. He remembered us! “It’s gonna be gnarly tomorrow. But we’ll show you how we do it up here.” As if the karma flip was switched, Michigan State took a cleat to the throat of Buckeye Nation, squelching their comeback attempt and in doing so, restoring balance to both the world of men and fish. No saying how this story ends if OU wins… The next morning we met in the parking lot of Fat Nancy’s tackle shop at 8am. Coffee and McMuffins in hand, we saw Justin’s jacked up 4Runner with snow tires and drift boat in tow come into view. Needless to say it made our ice-blue Jeep Patriot look like….well…an ice-blue Jeep Patriot. After exchanging remember-us-from-the-bar-the-other-night handshakes, we set off for Justin’s favorite stretch of water – LOCATION X. As if he were taking his cues from a Jeep commercial, Justin hopped into the cab of his truck and set off into the icy tundra at 70mph. Pedal to the metal. Not wanting to come off as pilgrims, we pushed our Patriot to the limits, bumping tunes and laughing about how we had come to be in this particular situation….following a relative stranger at breakneck speed in a winter wonderland with 8 hours to fish before we had to head home….. God I love this sport. Half an hour later, we arrived at LOCATION X…which I can’t really describe, name, or otherwise mention in honor of Justin’s request for it to remain anonymous (sorry, folks). But maybe you’ll see me out there next winter…… After launching the drift boat, we found ourselves in all too familiar territory a few hours into the day. Sexy water, drag free drifts, and nothing to show for our efforts but ice in the guides and a particularly nasty spill on my part (which rendered my left knee stiff and shoulder totally effed)--great. The cold, which we had ignored for the better part of the trip, began its misanthrope inducing path through our bevvy of layers. For once in my life, I was starting to have second thoughts about being on the water. It was that moment most anglers are all too familiar with – the moment where your shoulders hunch over, your energy seems completely drained, and each cast is an expression of indescribable effort. You know…that dark place in your mind where there are no fish left in the world…. But goddamnit— you keep casting. You can’t check out. That next cast could be the one you’ve been waiting for. This ain’t no place for the weary kind, pilgrim. FISH ON. And then it happened. After 40 or so hours of no-love for our flies or drifts, (can’t speak for Brogan here but) my body tired and hurting, the indicator did the most fucked up thing it could have ever done under the circumstances…..it did something. The ensuing moments were chaos. An anticipated blur of chrome and adrenaline. I don’t ever think I will forget the indicator’s hiccup. That slight moment of delayed gratification where you question if your indicator actually just ticked…that act of blind faith that is a hook set…Or the massive flash of chrome upon striking. Or the head shake…or my 7wt loading….the sound of frozen drag….my knees shaking from adrenaline—not the cold….and then that glorious, ungloved grip n grin….of 10 incalculably meaningful pounds of Lake Ontario steel… I like to think everyone has a highlight reel in their life. This was without a doubt one of those moments that makes mine. Snow falling, body frozen and broken, one of my best friends to celebrate with…and the fish secured in my non-gloved hands….you’d be hard pressed to find a bigger smile on my face. All we needed was Fowler. After taking a minute or two to savor the moment, I released the beast back into the seam and sat down. I needed to get my shit together. Then I saw Brogan’s indicator shoot down and I snapped into cameraman mode….I bet he’ll express a similar sentiment as the one written above, but will leave that up to him when the time comes. Bottom line, there is nothing better than catching the fish you came for. After 40 hours with nary the slightest sign of action or life for that matter, we were rewarded in the span of 120 minutes with 6 hook ups (4 chrome, 1 bow, 1 brown). While I could’ve just wrote this story in a few paragraphs, I couldn’t allow our plight to go untold (and bragging about the fish you catch is horrible, horrible fish karma). Touching steel for the first time is a rite of passage. It does not come easy. I can’t stress is enough – this ain’t no place for the weary kind. But..if you’re down to push yourself, take the risks, and push forward through the adversity of frozen guides, tangles, and slew of drift boats….this might be for you. Nothing worth doing in life is easy. Welcome to Poohtown—land of white walkers and revered salmonoids. We will be back.

Sitting under a fresh batch of stars on the back deck of the Sniki Tiki (the greatest tiki/dive bar of all time) cold beer in hand, hot wings en route, and a gentle Gulf keeping the relentless no-see-um offensive at bay, Brogan Jayne and I could do nothing but shake our heads and try to put the pieces together. After months of planning, anticipating, and dreaming of Red October on the Heron Lagoon – our pursuit of producing quality fish porn was supposed to be more…..well….more. More footage More fish More GoPro

More cow bell And the list goes on…. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. Good god no. Taking a sip of my beer and looking up at the tropical night sky for answers that surely wouldn’t come while in the refuge of my favorite tiki bar, a sun scorched mind offering up only the most irrational excuses for angling futility (don’t forget your lucky hat), I didn’t try to sugarcoat it. “Bro, I don’t think we’ve ever worked harder for a fish. Ever.” Brogan laughed it off. “Amen to that, Rem.” And then we ordered more beers….. A trip that spanned over 33 hours (out of 72) on the water with one of my best friends and absolute sniper with the fly rod wasn’t supposed to have produced the amount of heartache and frustration that it did. It didn’t help that the Braves and Rays were eliminated in that same time span. It didn’t help that the entire coastal region flooded due to heavy rains in the weeks prior. It didn’t help that we had a new moon. But everything happens for a reason. When things get tough, the tough get going. That’s the beautiful thing about fishing. It is absolutely unpredictable. No day on the water is the exact same as the day before (although if fishing is tough, it usually stays tough unless there is some X factor that single-handedly erases the sheetiness. Weather, moons, tides, & holding doors open for old ladies all factor into your day on the water believe it or not). Brogan and I have been on the receiving end of some brutal, fish-led assaults on the mind, body, and ego in the past. Sometimes perfect conditions are met with fishless days and at other times, you couldn’t pick a worse time to be on the water and things line up right in a big way. This wasn’t our first rodeo. We knew what we were signing up for the minute we brought the cameras in the boat.Fish hate cameras. So instead of getting disheartened by each “perfect” cast that deftly landed a few feet back in the groves or under a dock and went untouched – we adopted the mindset that we were one cast closer. The refusals only pushed us to fish harder. Make better casts. Pack more dips. Finding fish through elimination—talk about faith. But if you think about it, this incredible game of probability and chance eventually had to swing in our favor. The fish had to eat at some point. Inevitably, our fly would land in the right place, do its dance, and get clobbered by something hungry. It’s a game of perseverance. Plus there are just too many self-respecting game fish in this body of water for things to stay slow forever.

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after. David Thoreau said that. It probably best explains why – even though the fishing was on par with pulling teeth – that we kept at it. The things you see each time out on the water are an entirely new and genuine set of experiences. So although we only bagged a small poon, missed our shots on big reds, and managed to get an iota of the footage we needed – I’ll always look back fondly on this trip. The things we saw will be hard to forget…. A 40+” redfish crashing bait like a porpoising dolphin and the heart pounding seconds that were failed attempts to get his leviathan ass to eat a huge streamer….Tarpon backs breaking glass-calm water in predawn darkness….The slow, methodic, and entirely reckless pursuit of the unseen….. Bald eagles chasing ospreys……. And now I want to do it all over again. Stay fly.